


Now People Will Definitely Talk

by apliddell



Series: Irrational and Sentimental [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Texting, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock prepare for their wedding!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’re holding out on me, Sherl.  
J x

 

I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.  
-SH

 

You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, Future Mr Dr Watson?  
J x

 

How do you know about that?!  
-SH

 

Bags chief bridesmaid.  
J x

 

No bride means no bridesmaids of any description. I believe I asked you a question.  
-SH

 

Best man, then. Solve it. You’re sort of good at that, I’ve heard.  
J x

 

You’ve been listening at keyholes. Or you planted a bug in my flat at the same time you stole my favourite shirt.  
-SH

 

Jesus Sherl, not everyone you know is literally a spy.  
J x

 

You’re not getting the shirt back. I wear it about, actually. It looks killer with a pencil skirt.  
J x

 

It’s too long for you.  
-SH

 

I turn the sleeves up and tuck it in.  
J x

 

You still haven’t answered my question.  
-SH

 

Say I can be best man. Or an usher or something! It’s lucky to have an ex near at hand on your wedding day. I can be your something old ;)  
J x

 

I don’t think you count as an ex.  
-SH

 

Then how’d I get my hands on that shirt?  
J x

 

Give it back. Aubergine isn’t your colour.  
-SH

 

Nice try. I’m keeping the shirt. But I will tell you how I found out you’re getting married.  
J x

 

You told your friend Molly Hooper, and she told her boyfriend G Lestrade, and he told my girlfriend, who he happens to work with down at the Yard. Can you work out who that is?  
J x

 

Your girlfriend?!  
-SH

 

Whom*.  
-SH

 

You’ve got crap gaydar. No wonder you never got off with anyone before John.  
J x

 

I truly abhor you.  
-SH

 

Adore.* Now who’s making typos?  
J x

 

Any guesses about the girlfriend?  
J x

 

I never guess.  
-SH

 

You’re guessing now, only you won’t say because you’re a bad sport. Go on, then. Play along.  
J x

 

No. I don’t care.  
-SH

 

Spoilsport.  
J x

 

Spoilsport is my middle name.  
-SH

 

Fine, I’ll tell you, but only because you’ll be even more surprised than you were at the girlfriend bit.  
J x

 

Doubt it.  
-SH

 

Sally Donovan. Bet you weren’t expecting that.  
J x

 

I don’t care.  
-SH

 

Can I bring her to the wedding?  
J x

 

She won’t come; she hates me.  
-SH

 

Nah, she doesn’t. She thinks you’re a pompous, unprofessional twat, but she’s sort of fond of you, actually.  
J x

 

Context is important.  
J x

 

And it helps now she’s pretty sure you’re not a serial killer.  
J x

 

Thank me for that, by the way.  
J x

 

How generous.  
-SH

 

I’m bringing her to the wedding.  
J x

 

Tell me, do you derive all of your energy from presumption, or does some of it come from snideness as well?  
-SH

 

Pretend all you like, but you have been texting me all day.  
J x

 

I know what kind of man you are, remember?  
J x

 

I thought you were talking about the gay thing.  
-SH

 

I was talking about a lot of things.  
J x

 

What do you want to be an usher for?  
-SH

 

Because I like you, stupid. Why do you think?  
J x

 

Ergh fine, do it. If we have that sort of thing at all.  
-SH

 

I’ll be happy enough with one of those tit flowers and a little badge that says usher.  
J x

 

A corsage, Janine, for god’s sake! You should give a seminar in how to be appalling.  
-SH

 

You’re fun when you’re appalled, Sherl.  
J x

 

Ergh.  
-SH

 

I won’t talk about tits at the wedding.  
J x

 

Thank heaven for small mercies.  
-SH

 

It’s so hilarious that I thought you were Mr Cool when I met you, and now sometimes you remind me so much of my granny.  
J x

 

How on earth was I cool when you met me?  
-SH

 

I think it was the voice, to be honest. That quick talking thing and the deep voice. I quite liked that.  
J x

 

And now the scales have fallen from your eyes.  
-SH

 

And I like you even better.  
J x

 

I like you, too.  
-SH

 

I know.  
J x

 

Thanks for helping with John.  
-SH

 

You know I’m not sure that did help. I was a bit over my head in retrospect.  
J x

 

Yes, well. My head was about fifty feet below sea level.  
-SH

 

Thanks for being a good sport.  
-SH

 

My pleasure, Sherl.  
J x

 

Kiss John for me.  
J x

 

I will.  
-SH

…

Show of Hands, Who’s Surprised?

A few weeks back I did the best and cleverest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life and asked Sherlock Holmes to marry me. He accepted! We’re still sorting out the details about the wedding, but it looks like we’re going to have something quite small and intimate this autumn. I honestly can’t believe how perfect my life has become. I never knew I could be so happy. What’s the expression? I’m walking on air. Sherlock has promised me not to solve any crimes at the wedding, but I don’t know that I mind either way. Not that any criminals should consider this an invitation, but whatever happens, I’m sure we’ll be more than ready for it. We make rather a brilliant team.

 

Comments (36)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Actually I promised not to solve any crimes during the ceremony. The reception is another matter.

 

John Watson:  
Oh that’s quite a different story then. Solving crimes in the reception is all in a day’s work, isn’t it?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Always.

 

theimprobableone:  
YOU ARE A COUPLE???!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It’d be a tad eccentric for us to get married, if we weren’t.

 

theimprobableone:  
HOW DID I NOT NOTICE?!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You’ve gone and overexcited him again, John. You’re always stirring people up.

 

John Watson:  
You’ll know about that.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I promised no delving in public, but you’re tempting me, John.

 

Mike Stamford:  
Congratulations!! It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?

 

John Watson:  
Two thousand three hundred and four days, Sherlock?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Two thousand three hundred and six. Thank you, Mike.

 

John Watson:  
Yeah, thanks! We owe you big time!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Though John’s a rubbish flatmate. He’s not once ever halfed the rent. Not a single time.

 

John Watson:  
Don’t make me come over there.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I welcome it.

 

Janine Hawkins:  
Bags chief bridesmaid!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I am not a bride. We’ve been over this.

 

G Lestrade:  
Finally! Maybe I’ll make it to your stag night this time, John?

 

John Watson:  
That was actually Sherlock’s fault last time.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Was not! My calculations were perfect. You fiddled with the drinks when I wasn’t looking; I’m not stupid, you know.

 

Molly Hooper:  
My calculations, actually.

 

John Watson:  
Quick, who’s Madonna?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
That is an unfair rubric!

 

Mrs Hudson:  
My boys are finally getting married! I can hardly believe it!

 

Harry Watson:  
A PHONE CALL WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE!!!

 

John Watson:  
Oh my god! Harry, I am so sorry! I knew we were forgetting someone!

 

Harry Watson:  
At least you’ve got it right this time.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
As few references to ‘last time’ as we can collectively manage, if you don’t mind. John, I think your phone is ringing.

 

John Watson:  
I think you’re right. That’s amazing that you can hear it from out here. It’s all the way in the bedroom.

 

Harry Watson:  
JOHN WILL YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE?!

 

John Watson:  
I’ll ring back, I’ve just sat down.

 

Harry Watson:  
JOHN WATSON ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Oh for god’s sake! I’ll go and get your phone before your sister does permanent damage to her shift key.

 

John Watson:  
Thanks, love. See, this is why I'm marrying you.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
We're not delving, John. No delving.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and I walked into our sitting room early one morning to find Mycroft sat in my chair, posing rather primly with one hand on his umbrella, “Reconsider,” he said by way of greeting.

“Morning Mycroft,” I said, nodding at him as I passed through to the kitchen to start the coffee. “You’re lucky it was so cold last night. This one doesn’t usually wear much to bed,” I indicated Sherlock with my elbow.

Sherlock yawned hugely and flopped on the sofa, rubbing his belly, “You’re not staying for breakfast, are you?”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella irritably on the floor, “I know you know what I’m talking about, Sherlock.”

“I know you know there isn’t any point, Mycroft. Don’t bring him a coffee, John, or we’ll never be rid of him.”

“All right then,” I called as I set out three mugs, “No bickering. It’s Sunday, and you promised me relaxation,” I poked my head out of the kitchen doorway to look sternly at Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed, “How can you relax with my brother in the house?”

I pointed at Sherlock even more sternly, “He’s my brother, too.”

Sherlock tried to swallow a smile, “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, though he looked rather pleased as well, “If we could focus. I have actually come about something, you know.”

Sherlock stretched in a show of nonchalance, “Haven’t we established that I don’t care?”

“Maybe we could have this conversation without leaving me out, mm?” I popped back into the kitchen, “How do you take it, Mycroft?”

“White please, one sugar.”

Sherlock harrumphed again, “Our dear elder brother is here to interfere, John. As ever.”

“Well obviously,” I brought Sherlock his coffee first and kissed his grumpy cheek. “In anything specific?” I handed Mycroft his coffee, then squeezed onto the sofa next to Sherlock, who didn’t bother making room for me.

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said accepting his coffee and crossing his legs, “What do you suppose I had from Mummy during the weekly debriefing on her bingo game?”

Sherlock groaned, “Will you get on with it?”

“She thinks you two are going to be married in their garden in the summer with every Holmes in the country assembled and the roses all abloom,” Mycroft sipped his coffee, “She painted quite the pretty picture.”

Sherlock scowled, “Well, that’s not my fault.”

“Nobody said anything about fault, love,” I squeezed Sherlock’s knee, and he tapped it against my side.

“Mmm, indeed. Thank you, John.” Mycroft sipped again, “I intimated that you might be disinclined to wait so long.”

“Well that’s that, then,” Sherlock finally sipped his own coffee.

Mycroft waited a moment, “If you will excuse my interference-”

“No!” Sherlock cut in.

Mycroft continued without taking any notice, “I would like to suggest a happy medium between Mummy’s little fantasy and the elopement you are refusing to admit you have planned.” He waited to be interrupted again, but Sherlock was squeezing my hand and glaring silently. “I believe you’re familiar with the Criterion restaurant? I did a bit of research and thought it’d be next best thing to Bart’s morgue, your home away from home.”

Sherlock smiled grudgingly at that, then cut a glance at me, “John doesn’t want to go through all that flowers and serviettes nonsense again, Mycroft.”

I squeezed his hand very tightly, “Well as John is in the room, you have the advantage of getting his opinion straight from the tap, mm?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft clasped his hands and looked at me, “Favour us, please.”

I pet Sherlock’s knee and looked at him, “If you want to--only if you want to--I’d sort of like the chance to pay you back for lavishing me with all that praise in front of everyone we know.”

Sherlock dropped his chin and smiled, “You’ve lavished me with praise since the day you met me.”

I grinned and squeezed his knee again, “I’m that besotted, I guess. But it could be nice, couldn’t it? It wouldn’t have to be elaborate, but. Might be nice to have a little something.”

“There would be as much or as little to do as you like,” Mycroft tried not to sound eager. “And if you’re interested Sherlock, I could set you an appointment with Mr Powell.”

“Who’s Mr Powell?” I looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft.

“His tailor,” Sherlock said, his eyes flicking over Mycroft’s undeniably beautiful three-piece suit.

I grinned, “Oooh, we like that.”

Sherlock looked at me, “You wouldn’t make me wear a tie, would you?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t make you wear anything,” I leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Mycroft cleared his throat, “Though I do hope you will wear something.”

Sherlock sniffed, “Don’t kidnap me, and I won’t go around naked.”

Mycroft smiled, “Yes. Lesson learnt. Anyway, do we have a bargain?”

Sherlock folded his arms, “Let’s have the terms again.”

“You will be married at the Criterion restaurant on a date of your” he paused to indicate both of us with the head of his umbrella, “choosing, before an assembly of your choosing that is to include our parents and myself, and I will have the details seen to and introduce you” he indicated both of us again “to my tailor so that you can have an extremely beautiful suit made to your specifications. Perhaps you’d like it in writing so that your solicitor can run an eye over it.”

I laughed, and Sherlock glanced at me and twisted his ring on his finger, “What’s in it for you?”

Mycroft smiled a little wistfully, “The profound satisfaction of having convinced you to cooperate.”

Sherlock looked at me, “What do you think?”

“I think your brother is too much of a stick in the mud to say he’s fond of you and wants you to be happy.”

“Our brother,” Sherlock said, setting his coffee on the side table and pushing up into sitting.

Mycroft sort of grimaced, “Thank you, John.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock tapped his chin with his steepled fingers as if he’d never considered that Mycroft might be fond of him before. “Do you want to do it?”

I grinned, “Yeah, I do actually. If you do.”

“All right then,” Sherlock popped up and stepped onto then over the coffee table to offer Mycroft his hand, “It’s a bargain.”

Mycroft stood and shook hands, “Excellent. Mummy will be so pleased.”

Sherlock returned to the sofa, “I suppose it’s all right if you stay for breakfast.”

Mycroft reclaimed his chair, “My brother, the philanthropist.”

“Mmm, I’ve never been accused of that before,” Sherlock had his secretly pleased look on, “John, you’ll have to add it to my repertoire of accomplishments.”

I laughed, “Failed to poison Mycroft over breakfast. I’ll get right on it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “I honestly can’t think why I’m encouraging you.”

Sherlock nudged me in the back with his knee, “Because you’re fond of us,” he grinned spitefully as if he were saying something cutting, “and you want us to be happy.”

…

“Are you sure you’re all right with this? It’s okay to say, if you aren’t. I won’t be angry.”

“You’ll be disappointed, and that’s worse. Of course I’m all right with it. Stop fretting,” Sherlock pulled a shirt off the shelf and held it out toward me, “This’ll be outstanding with your suit, don’t you think?”

“Will it look bright enough? It’s cream; it isn’t white. I don’t want to be dingy next to you. I won’t be disappointed, Sherlock. Really I won’t.”

Sherlock waved the idea away, “Oh never mind about dingy. Mr Powell and I decided I’d have a dove grey shirt, instead of a white one, since I’m not doing the tie, and I look rather peaky in white anyway. You look absolutely delicious in cream-coloured shirts, John. They play so beautifully off your hair somehow. You want him, so have him. Invite him, anyway. Worst case scenario he says he can’t make it.” Sherlock shook the shirt at me, “Try it on anyway. Oooh, and the lavender. Also delicious.”

I laughed, “Every time we come here, you talk about clothes as if they’re the nicest bits on the pudding menu.”

“You’re the nicest thing on the pudding menu, John, not the shirts,” Sherlock linked his arm through mine and began towing me toward the fitting room.

I laughed and let myself be towed, “I’m a pudding, am I?”

Sherlock cocked his head over his shoulder and bounced his eyebrows at me, “Last I checked you don’t object to being eaten.”

“Jesus, Sherlock! That’s delving,” I glanced round and nodded to a rather scandalised-looking old man, “Fiancés, eh? Nothing to be done with them.” He averted his eyes and carried on browsing the ties.

Sherlock tugged my arm, “John, stop frightening the elderly. Get in there and try on the lovely shirt your intractable fiancé has chosen for you and think about how nice it’d be for you to have Major Sholto at our wedding.”

“Fine, fine, here I go.”

I popped out of the changing room a minute later, and Sherlock look critically at me, then joined me next to the communal mirror so that we could stare at my reflection together. “Bit tricky to decide, without the suit itself,” I said.

Sherlock plucked a bit of fuzz off my shoulder, “Not for me, I’ve an excellent imagination. But I can have the attendant bring in a jacket in the blue mohair, if you’re having trouble.” Sherlock disappeared abruptly at the end of his sentence and reappeared a moment later with a jacket instead of an attendant.

I pulled it on and studied myself, “Yeah, I do like this better than a white shirt, actually.”

Sherlock smiled at my reflection, “You see?” He gave my arm a little pinch, “I’m right.”

I knocked his hand away with my elbow, “You’re always right.”

“Lucky for you, we’re getting married, so you have me always on your side and you get to be always right by proxy.”

“Mm,” I agreed, “I’m a lucky man.”

Sherlock smoothed the shoulders of my jacket, “I’m going to stop pestering you right after this. But if you don’t invite him, you will wish you had.”

I toyed with my lapel, “You don’t have to. I don’t know, prove you aren’t jealous or whatever. It’s all right.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I’m honestly not. I don’t know why exactly. He’s taller than I am. And his eyes are bluer.”

I laughed, “But you’ve got lovely curly hair.”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock leaned over my shoulder and kissed my cheek, “So you see it’s all right then.” He kissed me again, “I only want you to have everything you want, John. I want you to be happy. One day of perfect happiness, unmarred by any errant if onlies.”

I broke into a grin at that and turned to face him and stroke the back of his neck, “All I need for that is you, lovely.”

Sherlock kissed me, “You’ll have me, John. Depend on it. I want you to have everything.”

I reached for his hand, and he squeezed mine, and we were silent a moment, “He won’t want to come.”

Sherlock smiled a little sadly at that, “He will. He’s your friend. He loves you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“John,” the rest of my sentence is drowned in a gasp as John thrusts deeper into me. I’m immersed in him, too. Swimming in him, his sighs, his smell, the sweat on his palms where he grips my hip.

“Yeah?” he skims a hand down my thigh draped over his shoulder, and I shiver at the sensation as he rubs against the grain of the hair and muffle a groan into the fleshy heel of my hand. “Good?” All I can do is nod. John drags his fingertips up my chest, raising gooseflesh in their wake. Then he glides them down and rests his hand heavily on my belly; his little finger toys with the hair above my navel and his thumb teases the damp tip of my cock. I shiver. John thrusts again harder, and I turn my face into my pillow and gasp.

“Sherlock,” John pets my thigh until I look up into his dazzling face, “You don’t need to do that.”

“John?” my voice is the merest quaver. He never seems to mind that.

“Don’t worry about being loud, all right?” John kisses my knee, nips at the crease behind the bed in my leg, and I jolt. John kisses again, “Don’t hold back. It’s okay. I want to hear you, Sherlock. I want to hear your beautiful voice. Okay?” John punctuates the question with an artful, rolling thrust of his hips. Moan, nod, clutch at his arm as I resist the urge to hide my face, to stifle myself. He rolls his hips again, “Does that feel good, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John!”

“Beautiful,” John raises one of my hands and kisses it, mouths at my fingertips, dances his tongue over the tips. He starts up thrusting in earnest, slow, rolling, rocking thrusts that wind tighter the hot anticipation coiling inside me.

“John!”

“That’s it, Sherlock,” he coaxes, clasping my hand. “Let it out, gorgeous. Doesn’t it feel good, Sherlock? Let me hear you.”

“John! John! John John John!” his name boils up inside me. I am bursting with him.

“Beautiful!” John quickens the pace of his hips. He sucks my fingers into his hot mouth one by one, then licks my palm and guides my hand down to my cock, closing his small, soft hand over mine around me. I jolt and squirm, and John laughs in his throat, “Getting close, gorgeous?”

“Yes John!”

“Good,” John doesn’t slow his hips as we stroke my cock, “Let it out, Sherlock. Let go, lovely. Come on. For me, Sherlock. Come on, lovely, it’s all right. Nice and loud. Please Sherlock, for me. Sherlock, please,” John’s voice cracks on my name, and he adds a twist to his stroking hand and rolls my foreskin between his fingertips. John nuzzles his face into my thigh and bites me quite hard. I arch up into his hand and come, shaking like a rung bell with a scream that leaves my ears tingling.

“Oh fuck! Sherlock!” John can’t clear the rasp in his voice. He drops his come-slick hand to my hip and bounces me against him several more times before he goes rigid and sags, shuddering onto me with a sweet groan.

…

“Greece maybe,” John nudges me with the foot in my lap, “Wake up.”

Open my eyes, “I’m not asleep.” I reach through the dense, honey-scented bath foam to squeeze his foot and toss a damp lock of my hair off my forehead.

“Yeah?” John raises his eyebrows. “What was I talking about, then?”

Smile at the thought before I answer, “Honeymooning.”

John grins languidly, “Let’s go someplace sunny, okay?” He licks his lips, “You’ll freckle.”

My smile grows, and I look down at my arm through the bubbles, trying to imagine a patch of freckles, “Late autumn is a bit chilly for the beach, even in Greece, John.”

John cocks his head in agreement, “True.”

Takes me a moment to answer (agreeably sleepy between the warm, fragrant water, the candlelight and the afterglow)(John is extremely talented at organising a bubble bath),

“We might wait, I suppose. Go in the spring.”

John shakes his head, something heated rising in his eyes and the crook of his mouth, “Nah, I’ll need you all to myself sooner than that, gorgeous. I’m fucking greedy for you.”

Warm prickle that’s nothing to do with the heat of the water runs over me (love it when he speaks to me that way)(I shall saturate him, and he me). I shiver, “Well.” I clear my throat, “That’s that. I won’t keep you wanting, John.”

“You never do.” John smiles the way he does when he’d rather like to kiss me, “I’m not married to the freckles,” John pauses to giggle over his own joke for a moment, and I squeeze his foot again. “Well, I’m married to--marrying--all your bits, mm? But we’ll go somewhere else.”

“If you like, John. I’ll go wherever you ask me to go.”

“I know,” John says softly, petting my knee. “The more I think about it, the less bothered I am where we go, lovely.”

Stroke John’s leg and squeeze his calf, “I’m sure we’ll see everything we want to see at some point, John.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we will. No rush.” John leans forward to take my hand and presses it, turns the ring on my finger, “We can take our time, eh? We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

...

I walked into our flat one evening about two weeks out from our wedding to find Sherlock packing away his violin and looking extremely pleased with himself.

I grinned at the sight as I hung up my coat, “Is that for me?”

Sherlock smiled mysteriously and gave the case a little pat, “That isn’t how surprises go, John.”

“Then it is for me,” I crossed the room and kissed him.

“Mmm. It’s for later is what it is, nosey,” Sherlock’s scolding didn’t care much weight, coupled with his twinkling smile.

“I’m nosey? You’re a professional detective,” I tapped his chest.

“So are you.” Sherlock caught my finger and drew my hand up to kiss it, “I’ve rubbed off on you."

I laughed, “Mmmyeah, but not recently enough, in my opinion.”

Sherlock smirked, “You always say that.”

“I’m always thinking it.”

Sherlock kissed me, “Mind you get all out of your system now, because we’ll be married soon, and then it’s no sex ever again.”

I laughed, “You couldn’t even finish that sentence with a straight face.”

“I had no hope of ever getting you to believe it even for an instant, and I decided not to waste the energy. Mmm,” he kissed me again, “I went and collected your ring today. Mrs Hudson agrees that it’s very handsome. But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to verify that until the day itself, John.”

I grinned, “I'm sure Mrs Hudson is right, but feel free to surprise me.”

“I intend to. And we’ve had a bit of post today. My uncle Rudy sent us a wedding present of a very large mirror,” Sherlock pointed to a mirror propped against the wall next to his music stand that I hadn’t noticed before. “I imagine we’ll hang it in the bedroom, so that you can do your excessive preening in private.”

I laughed, “Ah, your uncle Rudy knows me so well.”

“Yes, John, your reputation for preening has preceded you.” Sherlock seemed to hesitate, “And you’ve had a letter. It’s on the mantel.” He crossed to the fireplace as he spoke and handed me the envelope.

The handwriting on the front was familiar. I tore it open at once and read it aloud, “‘Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, Major James Sholto accepts with pleasure your kind invitation. See you soon! Fondly, James’” I looked up at Sherlock, “Well. There we are.”

Sherlock beamed. It was lovely, “There, you see. No if onlies.”

“No if onlies,” I agreed. Sherlock hugged me and rested his head on my shoulder. I stroked the back of his neck and down his back to his waist, “You know you promised me something that you’ve yet to deliver, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped back to frown into my face, “Have I? What?”

“Refresh me on our dancing lessons?”

Sherlock beamed, “I suppose there’s no such thing as being too well-practised.” He tied his dressing gown shut, then dug his phone out of the pocket and swiped through it to find our practise music and set it on the mantel, “Ready when you are, John.”

I drew him out into the centre of the room, took him in my arms, and began to lead him in rather lazy circles, “We aren’t going to stop doing this after the wedding, are we?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock’s hum of contentment came from deep in him, and I felt it buzz against my middle and my ear at once, “I’ll dance with you any time you like, John.” He stroked my shoulder, “Here comes the dip.”

“I hear it.” Sherlock wrapped his arms round my neck as the music swelled, and I lowered him gently and kissed him.

“That was perfect,” he sighed, as I raised him again. Sherlock tucked his head down against mine, “You’re perfect.”

I cleared my throat, but my voice wobbled just a bit. It matched the little flutter in my stomach, “It’s the company, my lovely.”

He sighed again, “We’re going to be married very soon, John. I can scarcely believe it.”

“Sixteen days,” I rubbed a little circle on the small of his back.

Sherlock nodded, “Sixteen days, yes. Sixteen days until forever.”


End file.
